


The Origin of Hellhounds

by WitchFlame (RachelMcN)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol, And It Is Also Drunk, Aziraphale and Crowley Share a Brain Cell (Good Omens), Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Aziraphale is a Mess (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Dogs, Drinking, Drunken Shenanigans, Drunkenness, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Hellhounds, Humor, I Amused Myself At Least, Just So Much Drink, Soft Crowley (Good Omens), puppies!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:02:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24143290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RachelMcN/pseuds/WitchFlame
Summary: Crowley has had an amazing idea.Completely coincidentally, the humans have recently come up with this fun new drink vaguely known as ‘alcohol’.Aziraphale may or may not be the catalyst for the whole thing.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 62





	The Origin of Hellhounds

“Okay, no, hear me out,” Crowley insisted, Aziraphale nodding along obligingly, “ _hell hounds.”_

Aziraphale’s eyebrows drew together, his nose scrunching as he tried to follow this trail of logic. “ _Hounds?”_ He repeated doubtfully, “Hounds. Why hounds? Why not...felines. _Hell felines_.” 

“Nonono, you’re missing the point,” Crowley insisted, swaying dangerously close to the floor as he pooled himself over the arm of his chair. His hands waved vaguely through the air, no doubt intended to assist his stunning explanation. The liquid inside his cup soared spectacularly over the rim, sprinkling sadly across the ground. He stared at the lost alcohol in confusion. 

“Cats are nasty little creatures,” Aziraphale continued to himself, swirling his own cup of the novel new liquid and watching the intriguing sparkles scattering across its surface, “Hiding in the dark as a poor mouse goes around on its own busin – bus – living its own life and then _pounce!”_ His eyes widened dramatically, became a touch reflective. “Poor mouse.” 

“This is nice,” Crowley hummed, “tasty. Fuzzy. Where’d the humans learn to make fuzzy drinks?” He bolted upright as he realised he’d been distracted from his initial goal. The chair rocked alarmingly. “Dogs!” 

“Dogs?” 

“Yeah, dogs. No. Hounds. Sounds scarier. _Hounds._ Raaar.” 

The angel nodded seriously. He gave a gruff, “woof!” in solidarity. 

“Hell should have hounds,” Crowley summarised, happy with his conclusion. He sank back in the chair. Wrapped both hands around the cup to keep it steady and took a long gulp. 

“Why?” 

He screwed his face up at Aziraphale’s blatant misunderstanding. “Cos...cos, why not?” he spluttered, “Humans get dogs. Demons should...should be allowed hounds. S’only fair.” 

“Angels don’t get dogs,” Aziraphale complained, grabbing for the pitcher they were sharing and missing twice before managing to wrap his fingers around it, “what if I want a dog.” 

“No,” Crowley argued, feeling himself starting to slip out of the chair. When had that started to happen? “No, but, dogs are all – well, they hunt, don’t they? Big pack animals, all claws and teeth and tearing things to shreds.” 

“Loyal,” Aziraphale refuted, pouring a good amount of the interestingly flavoured liquid over his lap as he tried to aim for the cup, “and loving. Very good family animals, dogs. Very angelic. Heaven hounds.” 

“You can’t just,” Crowley whined, “S’my idea. How’d you go and get them up there anyway, fall through the clouds, wouldn’t they? Don’t got wings, dogs.” 

Aziraphale looked crestfallen at this realisation. Crowley leaned over to pat his arm in consolation and the pitcher poured more of its contents across the angel at the jolted motion. 

“Look, look,” Crowley started, losing his train of thought somewhat when Aziraphale looked back at him obediently, shining azure blue, “Right, so, hounds yeah? Hell is all...all dark and gloomy. I go down there, I say – I say, _you know what this place needs_ and then I pull out one of those big black shaggy ones and I go _BAM, that’s what Hell needs!_ They’ll love it.” 

“But,” Aziraphale struggled to voice his objections, “but...puppies! Puppies are cute and small and – ” 

“That’s what’s great about it,” Crowley claimed enthusiastically, “they’ll see this – this big brute of a thing and they’ll go _wow, that’ll mess someone up real bad_ and they’ll go and tell a bunch of demons _hey, make more of these_ and then – and then...” He trailed off, cackling. 

Aziraphale began to picture a group of demons tending to litters of pups, little balls of fluff crawling all over the panicking entities as they desperately hid the innocence they’d been party in creating from their upper management. Against his better judgement he snorted with amusement. 

“And when I go down there next and there’s – there’s this great heaving beast next to Beezlebub, I’ll know won’t I?” Crowley wheezed, “Cos vanity is a sin, isn’t it? Sure, they look bad and they _smell,_ but their wings are the glossiest in all of Hell! So – so I’ll go down there and they’ll have this terrifying hound right next to them and it’ll look so well _groomed_ and I’ll know that they – that they went and spent hours fussing over the thing cos they can’t let their terror beast have a _bad hair day!”_

The two entities broke into heaving bouts of laughter, picturing the prince of hell on their knees tending to a slobbering beast, a furry tail slamming from side to side as they upheld their standards of vanity and power. 

“And,” Crowley continued, hugging the leg of the chair he was most certainly no longer in, “and all these other demons will be getting hounds and naming them – I dunno, _Spike_ and _Terror_ and _Stalks-By-Night_ I s’pect and dogs are pack animals, right? Humans got them all wanting masters and friends and such and these hell hounds will be running around chasing souls and playing fetch with bones and getting groomed every other day and they’ll be _loving_ it.” 

Aziraphale squeaked as he realised where Crowley was going with this, hands splayed over his mouth as his cheeks flushed in pure joy. 

“Hell will be full of love,” Crowley cackled, “Kennels full of puppies and wagging tails everywhere and _nobody will ever know.”_

He lunged forwards, grabbing the remainder of the pitcher and pouring the dregs into his cup. 

“And – and I’ll name mine Rover,” he declared, “Cos I’ll take it back and forth; and you can look after it for me when I’m busy cos you don’t have a heaven hound.” 

Aziraphale’s eyes went distant and he didn’t even care anymore that Crowley was downing what was left of their drink. “Oh, I can already picture her, she’ll be adorable.” 

“She?” Crowley squinted into the pitcher, shaking it to make sure no more liquid was hiding from him, “Sure, she can be a she.” 

“Crowley, this is a _brilliant_ idea.” 

“I know,” the demon agreed smugly, “S’why I told you, isn’t it? We’re out of...the thing. We’re out of the thing, angel.” 

“We are?” Aziraphale blinked, dropping out of his daydream to frown disappointedly at the empty cups, “Oh. It was good. We should get more.” 

“Yeah.” 

“And a dog.” 

“Ye – what, now?” 

“ _Now,”_ Aziraphale enthused, “there’s demons without puppies, Crowley. We have to fix that.” 

The demon hiccupped, affected a look of conspiratorial wiliness. “No puppies.” 

“No puppies,” Aziraphale agreed, looking dismayed, “that’s sad. That’s so sad.” 

“Well let’s find ourselves a dog,” Crowley cawed, pulling himself to his feet and staggering backwards hopelessly, “The biggest – big and scariest one we can find. Not a wolf, though. Wolves bite.” 

“Friendly, though,” Aziraphale declared sternly, his own legs buckling dangerously as he braced against the wall. 

“It’sss for hell,” Crowley barked, waving his arms wildly in an effort to keep his balance and stop the room from spinning, “Gotta be black. At least. And loud. Scary. Ooh, scarred! That’ll...that’ll make them think it’s a real scrapper.” 

“We’ll need two,” the angel gasped, staggering forward and gripping Crowley by the arms in his haste to spread this newest revelation. 

“What? Why we – what we needing with two?” 

“Dogs, Crowley!” Aziraphale cried, pulling the demon after him, “Puppies! We have to fill Hell with puppies!” 

To be honest, Crowley doesn’t remember much of his presentation to hell, intoxicated as he was. He’s fairly sure he remembers Ligur being greatly impressed – or was it Hastur? – when the stray they’d found had snapped at them and nearly shorn off several fingers. There must have been something wrong with the beast’s ears. Crowley petted its back absently and felt the animal press into him when his spark of occult energy chased the infection away. 

“And you say the humans are scared of these creatures,” Beezlebub’s voice grated through his hearing. 

“Pfft, _yeah,”_ he declared, leaning into the dog in turn, “Big jaws and claws and – tails. Always...always wagging, the tails.” He frowned, feeling he should add something to that. “It’sss hypnotising,” he decided, feeling the rhythmic thump against the back of his legs. He stared at Beezlebub with wide eyes. Several flies were performing an impromptu circus dance around their head. 

“Is that what happened to you?” he was interrogated dryly. It took a moment for the words to filter through his brain. 

“Yes,” he agreed, blinking, “Sssure. Maybe – maybe some blood loss. From, erm, wrangling the big dog – _hound._ Issa hound.” 

Beezlebub seemed impressed. He thinks. They might have just been disturbed. Regardless, when he staggered back out of Hell he made a point of erupting from the ground nearby the angel and swinging his arms wide in victory, grinning maniacally. 

“There you are!” Aziraphale exclaimed, “I found a female!” 

The large, exorbitantly heavy dog that the angel was carting about in his arms suddenly found a new home atop Crowley’s chest. He still didn’t understand the need for two of the things, he thought his presentation had gone pretty successfully with only one, but it was a bit hard to argue when your lungs were being crushed and your air canals assaulted by fur. 

The new dog padded happily atop him and slobbered over his face. Truly, Aziraphale had found a monstrous companion to their first acquisition. She was very shaggy and very brown. Dark brown, but still. He wheezed and flailed his arms in protest at this fact. 

“She has scars, see,” the angel proclaimed proudly, “her ear must have gotten torn when she was little.” He ruffled the dog between her ears happily. She barked and the sound travelled through Crowley like an earthquake. Eh, close enough. 

Beezlebub glared at him when he swayed back into their vicinity, trailing the mound of fur. “Is a female,” he slurred importantly. They kept glaring. “You need two. For pup – for sssome reason.” He scratched at his nose and missed, catching his glasses. He carried through with the motion and swept them from his face dramatically. “I dunno. She was chasing an angel?” Their eyes lit up and he found himself scrabbling back out of the ground a second time, regretting his inability to replicate his previous smooth entrance. 

“We’re going to have a puppy,” the angel squealed as Crowley kicked a worm off his shoe. 

“I gotta,” he mumbled drunkenly, “gotta teach them about stairs.” 

Aziraphale slapped his back to help clear him of soil, sending him staggering. “Ew, you stink,” the angel complained. 

“Yeah,” he moaned, “I know, it’s – you never climbed through the dirt? There’s a lotta – lot of rotting stuff in there.” 

The angel clutched at the sleeves of their man-made clothing and shuddered at the notion. 

“Where’s the drink,” Crowley wheedled, “The spinny, fuzzy drink. D’you find more?” 

The angel had indeed found more. 

In the morning, Crowley found correspondence smelling faintly of brimstone tied to the leg of a furious raven. 

“Ssshut up,” he hissed, pawing blindly in the direction of the cacophony, “Mm sleeping. Ssshhh.” 

His pillow groaned and he forced his eyes open in confusion as the raven hopped atop his shoulders and pecked him deliberately. 

“Gah,” he shrieked, “Ngh, nah no, go ‘way.” He wriggled and batted at the air, accidentally catching the scroll long enough to slip it loose. The raven took off with a derogatory caw. “Blech,” he complained, shoving the scroll from his chest, “Ss smelly. I didn’t do it. Maybe.” He closed his eyes and buried back into his pillow, trying to decide if he should look at the scroll any time soon in case it was important. 

“Dear lord,” his pillow whined, “Am I being discorporated? What is this? Why is everything so _bright?”_

He moaned in consolation and felt his pillow patting at his head as they wiggled around. 

“Crowley? I think you have a letter. Oh my, that smells absolutely...vile.” His pillow convulsed and he flailed off them in a panic. “That’s yours,” Aziraphale choked, pushing the letter towards him, “Get it away from me.” 

“It’s rotten,” he whined, peeling it open anyway, grimacing as the smell chased down into his stomach. He squinted, tilted his head. “Oh. Oh no.” 

“No? What’s no?” Aziraphale had rolled onto his side, curling up as he stared very deliberately at his own hands. “Crowley, I think we poisoned ourselves.” 

“Dogs.” 

Aziraphale frowned, his debilitated mind churning. “I don’t think dogs poisoned us.” 

“No,” Crowley groaned, shoving the scroll aside and face-planting back into the angels side. Aziraphale let out a soft huff. “Hell hounds.” 

“Hell has hounds?” 

“It does now.” 

Crowley could almost hear the angel’s mind stalling. “When did that happen?” 

“Last night.” 

“Oh.” There was a beat of silence. “Oh dear.” 

Crowley hid in the angel and decided not to think ever again. Aziraphale breathed very carefully through the unusual queasiness he was experiencing. 

“Angel? I don’t feel so well.” 

“Yes,” Aziraphale sighed, “I know what you mean. That new concoction seemed like such fun.” 

“I’ve introduced dogs to Hell. The canine demons started a howling contest. I don’t wanna go back there. Dagon’s furious.” 

Aziraphale reached out weakly and managed to find Crowley’s leg. He patted it reassuringly. “It’ll be fine,” he lied, “give them a few generations and they’ll grow into proper little hell beasts. Probably. Maybe.” Crowley keened pitifully into the angel’s side. 

The silence stretched. 

“If I discorporate because I poisoned myself imbibing a human-crafted substance, Heaven is going to be mad.” 

“Not going to mention the hell hounds?” 

“I’m trying not to think about it. I really am.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, on one hand I know that glasses were invented long after alcohol was first discovered (priorities), but on the other hand I present to you Crowley's well-documented imagination unhindered by logic and egged on with the boundless possibilities of inebriation when trying his best not to appear utterly sloshed in front of his superiors.


End file.
